The Complete Pratt (66 page)

‘Yes. The omens look good,’ said Derek Parsonage.

‘I hate that kind of systematic petty sadism under the excuse of authority. You must have come across a lot of that, Uncle Teddy,’ said Henry. ‘In Rangoon,’ he added hurriedly.

The oriental mind is different to ours,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘Well, what did you think of it all, Henry?’

Henry couldn’t bring himself to say that he’d liked it. Why did everything Uncle Teddy do have to be to some degree a con?

‘Were the Côte d’Azur Cuties really French?’ he asked.

‘No. Nobody said they were,’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘Monsieur Emile did.’

‘No,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘He said they were born close to the French coast. They were. In Folkestone.’

‘Their real name is the Kent Hoppers,’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘Clever,’ said Derek Parsonage.

‘Is Monsieur Emile French?’ said Henry.

‘Oh yes,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘But he isn’t from Gay Paree. He’s from Gay Charlesville-Mexières.’

‘But it doesn’t have the same ring,’ said Derek Parsonage.

‘What about the legendary Martine?’

‘She’s French, she’s called Martine, but she isn’t legendary,’ said Uncle Teddy.

Uncle Teddy and Derek Parsonage laughed. Henry didn’t.

‘Don’t sit there with the weight of the world’s shortcomings on your shoulders,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘It’ll destroy you.’

‘It’s show business,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘What is show business but illusion?’

When Derek Parsonage had gone home to bed, Uncle Teddy poured the rest of the bottle.

‘Oh dear oh dear,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ said Henry.

They sat in exhausted silence.

‘I’m grateful to national service,’ said Henry. He couldn’t leave it alone that night. ‘It’s shown me how cruel people in positions of
authority
can be if their attitudes get any kind of nod from a higher authority.’

‘Yes … well … I can see that you feel the need to justify your extraordinary behaviour,’ said Uncle Teddy.

Henry felt that Uncle Teddy wanted to say something affectionate. He wanted to say something affectionate to Uncle Teddy. He wanted to tell him that he loved him. He’d managed to tell Cousin Hilda and Auntie Doris. It wasn’t so easy, with a man. Go on. Try. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much point in you and me discussing anything,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t agree. I imagine you’re pretty right-wing about everything. Villains usually are.’ No!! ‘Sorry, Uncle Teddy. I’m all churned up. I … er … I really am sorry. Because I’m really … er … quite fond of you, you know.’

There was a pause. He was blushing. He hoped Uncle Teddy wouldn’t be too embarrassingly fulsome in reply.

‘You’re right about villains,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I wonder why.’

‘Well left-wingers are left-wingers either because they’re poor or because they’re idealists,’ said Henry. ‘Not many villains are poor, and none of them are idealists.’

‘You can be quite clever sometimes,’ said Uncle Teddy.

‘I know,’ said Henry. ‘So why is my life such a mess?’

A THAW BROUGHT
floods throughout Europe. 6,000 Midland car workers were put on a four-day week. In South Africa, 400 white women, wearing black sashes, stood with bowed heads in protest at a law removing coloured workers from the common roll. Mr Andrew Redrobe summoned Henry to his office.

‘I’m going to give you a tremendous opportunity,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re ready for it?’

He could hardly say ‘no’, but it seemed presumptuous to say ‘yes’.

‘I hope so,’ he said.

‘I plan a major series of features, and I believe you’re the ideal man to do it.’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Henry was too busy trying not to show how flattered he was to worry about that ‘sir’.

‘It’s about the total
ineptitude
of
English education
,’ said the neatly dressed editor, banging his right hand on his desk three times for emphasis.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Henry.

When he told Terry Skipton that he would be spending three days down south, visiting his old schools, the news editor accepted the prospect of his absence with equanimity.

‘But what about my calls?’ said Henry, somewhat nettled.

‘We’ve a seventeen-year-old joining us. You’ll move on to general reporting.’ Terry Skipton shook his large, bulbous head disbelievingly. ‘Your apprenticeship is over, Mr Pratt.’

The next task of Henry ‘He probes the facts behind the facts’ Pratt was to telephone the headmaster of Thurmarsh Grammar School. He dreaded this. He’d crossed swords with Mr E. F. Crowther before.

‘Mr Crowther? My name’s Henry Pratt. I’m a recent old Thurmarshian,’ he began, selfconsciously. He still hadn’t got used to telephoning from an open-plan office, with all his
colleagues
listening. ‘Pratt.’ He smiled sheepishly at Ginny. ‘P-R-A-T-T.’

‘Ah! Pratt!’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘Sorry. It’s a bad line. Yes, I remember you. You interrupted me with a fatuous joke when I was giving the school the benefit of twenty years of careful thinking about life.’

‘That’s me.’

‘For a while quite a lot of people referred to you as Guard’s Van Pratt.’

Ginny and Colin were surprised to hear Henry say, ‘Guard’s Van Pratt?’

‘I said, “In every part of the army, from the Pioneer Corps to the Guards, there were Thurmarshians in the van”,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther. ‘You said, “The guard’s van.”’

‘No, sir.’ Damn! ‘Actually you said, “In every walk of life there are Thurmarshians in the van. I said, “The bread van.”’ He made a face at Ginny and Colin.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Mr E. F. Crowther, ‘what a pleasure it is to renew acquaintanceship with a wag of your calibre.’

‘I’m twenty-one in a couple of weeks, Mr Crowther,’ said Henry. ‘I’m no longer a … er …’

‘… foolish youth who thinks his asinine comments are of more value than the accumulated wisdom of his elders.’

‘Quite.’ Henry was uneasy about this series. He didn’t share his editor’s obsession that
all
English education was bad. Within a system too rigid, too remote, too class-conscious, too exam-oriented, he’d been taught by some splendid teachers like Miss Candy and Mr Quell. But Mr E. F. Crowther was not among them. He’d make a splendid start to the series. He was a pillock.

‘How can I help you, anyway?’ said the headmaster.

‘I’m a reporter on the
Argus
, Mr Pill … Crowther.’

‘Good Lord!’

‘I’m doing a feature on the total … range of English education. And … er … I wondered if I could a) interview you and b) have
carte blanche
to … er … talk to people in the school.’

‘There are corners of the school on which no female eyes have ever been clapped. Would you plan to cart Blanche everywhere?’

‘What?’

‘It was a joke. I was seeing how you liked being interrupted with juvenile jokes. A pathetic piece of tit for tat which I already regret. Forget my foolishness. Certainly I’ll see you. Would two-thirty on Friday be convenient?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good. I have to go now. I have an appointment.’

The police would later believe that these were the last words that Mr E. F. Crowther ever said to anybody.

On the morning of Friday, March 2nd, 1956, Henry made his rounds of hospitals and police stations for the last time. ‘Sorry, nothing for you today,’ was the general refrain. ‘Damn. Oh well, thanks anyway,’ was the reply of caring young humanist Henry Pratt on learning that the great Thurmarsh public had been so selfish as to refuse to lose important limbs in unusual ways for the gory delectation of their fellow citizens.

He lunched in the Rundle Café, on sausages, mash and beans. He sat opposite the assistant manager of the Halifax Building Society, whose eyes became moist during the treacle pudding, perhaps because the mortgage rate had gone up to 5½%, or perhaps because his trousers were too tight, or perhaps because he was overcome with emotion at the tale of Penelope, the Porcupine who hated being prickly.

He walked up Rundle Prospect, turned left into Market Street, then right into Link Lane. He approached the long, sober, brick-built school with its rows of regular, disciplined windows. The sky was the colour of cold, thin gravy. He tried to feel the carefree joy that he’d once imagined to be the permanent condition of all those who’d left school. It was no use. He felt all the cares of adulthood and also, beneath them, a residual echo of all the anxieties of childhood.

He went up the wide stairs to the first floor and along the clean, barren corridor which stretched towards the horizon, its emptiness broken only by fire buckets. His hollow footsteps rang out through the fragile calm of the working school. He knocked on the door of Mr E. F. Crowther’s study, and was surprised to find it opened by a bulky man with a square head and splay feet. No policeman had ever been concealed more uselessly in plain clothes.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve got an appointment to see Mr Crowther. What’s happened?’

‘When did you make this appointment?’ said the policeman.

‘Wednesday afternoon. On the phone.’

‘What time?’

‘Oh … about three, I suppose.’

‘Come inside.’ The burly policeman closed the door behind them. ‘We’re trying to do this discreetly,’ he said. ‘Our psychiatrist has warned of the danger of mass hysteria in schools.’

‘What’s happened?’ repeated Henry.

The study was light and airy. There were neat piles of books, and the three internal walls were covered with graphs and rosters.

‘Mr Crowther walked out of here at three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and hasn’t been seen since. You may have been the last person to speak to him alive.’

‘Good Lord! I mean … headmasters don’t disappear into thin air.’ Henry was dismayed to find that, after the first shock, his thoughts were mainly for himself. This could kill off his series. They could hardly lash into educational incompetence if it turned out to be a tragedy. Henry ‘He probes the facts behind the facts’ Pratt would be strangled at birth. This gave him another thought. ‘I’m a journalist!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can I use the phone?’

‘No. Now then, this phone call to the headmaster …’

‘I have to ring my paper. I have to warn them to hold the front page.’

‘They’ve held the front page.’

‘What?’

‘It’s in the paper already. The disappearance was reported at 11.02.’

‘Where to?’

‘Darmley Road.’

‘Bloody hell! That must have been five minutes after I’d left.’

‘Anyroad up, I’m in charge of the investigation, and I’d like to hear about this phone call. All right?’

Everything went in the notebook. The bread van. Carting Blanche. Two feeble jokes given immortality by events. The police officer became taut with significance on hearing that Mr
Crowther
had said, ‘I have to go now. I have an appointment.’

‘Did he say anything that might have suggested a depressed state of mind?’ he asked.

‘You mean …?’

‘It’s a possibility. We’re dragging the river and the canal.’

‘No. Well … there was something odd.’

‘Yes?’

‘He said his joke had been a pathetic piece of tit for tat. He said he regretted it.’

‘I don’t see owt odd in that. He should have regretted it and all.’

‘You didn’t know him.’ Henry felt a stab of shock as he realized that he was assuming that Mr Crowther was dead. ‘I mean, that was practically an apology. I’d say it could indicate an unusual state of mind. Rather as if the Pope said, “Sorry. I’ve dropped a clanger. Well, nobody’s infallible, are they?’”

Colonel Glubb Pasha, the British commander of Jordan’s Arab Legion, was dismissed by King Hussein. The MCC apologized for an incident in which a Pakistani umpire sprained his shoulder while trying to avoid being doused with water by members of the England cricket team after a dinner. Henry travelled to Skipton to meet Auntie Doris.

A sharp shower soaked him as he walked from the station to the Craven Tea-Rooms, in a cobbled yard off the wide main street of the pleasant, stone-built market town.

Inside the tea-rooms, the smell of fresh coffee mingled with the faintly rotten fug of drying clothes. Pots, cups and people steamed.

‘I … er … I saw Uncle Teddy,’ said Henry.

‘Oh?’

‘He … there … er … isn’t anybody else.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well!’

‘Quite. I … er … I asked him if he’d ever thought of … er … I mean it just cropped up, I didn’t say you’d said anything, well I couldn’t, you hadn’t … if he’d ever thought of … er …
trying
to get you back. He was very encouraging. Very encourageing indeed.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. He changed the subject.’

‘You call that encouraging?’